Just behind her—it was on the broad pavement at Whitehall—some one spoke her name.
‘Miss. Lord! Why, who would have expected to see you here? Shouldn’t have dared to think of such a thing; upon my word, I shouldn’t!’
A man of about thirty, dressed without much care, middle-sized, wiry, ruddy of cheek, and his coarse but strong features vivid with festive energy, held a hand to her. Luckworth Crewe was his name. Nancy had come to know him at the house of Mrs. Peachey, where from time to time she had met various people unrecognised in her own home. His tongue bewrayed him for a native of some northern county; his manner had no polish, but a genuine heartiness which would have atoned for many defects. Horace, who also knew him, offered a friendly greeting; but Samuel Barmby, when the voice caught his ear, regarded this intruder with cold surprise.
‘May I walk on with you?’ Crewe asked, when he saw that Miss. Lord felt no distaste for his company.
Nancy deigned not even a glance at her nominal protector.
‘If you are going our way,’ she replied.
Barmby, his dignity unobserved, strode on with Miss. Morgan, of whom he sought information concerning the loud-voiced man. Crewe talked away.
‘So you’ve come out to have a look at it, after all. I saw the Miss Frenches last Sunday, and they told me you cared no more for the Jubilee than for a dog-fight. Of course I wasn’t surprised; you’ve other things to think about. But it’s worth seeing, that’s my opinion. Were you out this morning?’
‘No. I don’t care for Royalties.’
‘No more do I. Expensive humbugs, that’s what I call ‘em. But I had a look at them, for all that. The Crown Prince was worth seeing; yes, he really was. I’m not so prejudiced as to deny that. He’s the kind of chap I should like to get hold of, and have a bit of a talk with, and ask him what he thought about things in general. It’s been a big affair, hasn’t it? I know a chap who made a Jubilee Perfume, and he’s netting something like a hundred pounds a day.’